


Another Lesson To Be Learned

by luninosity



Series: ...and this compromise [3]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Bottom!Charles, Consensual Kink, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Hurt/Comfort, It Helps When You Talk To Each Other, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Protective!Erik, Reconciliation, Sexual Content, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles overdoes things with Cerebro; Erik panics; Erik and Charles have a discussion about what orders Erik can give and what orders Charles can realistically promise to obey. And then there is apologetic sex. </p><p>Series being written for utterlysorbine’s prompt of <i>Erik and Charles are starting to negotiate a budding relationship - as dominant (Erik) and submissive (Charles). Whilst Charles is all for this, as someone who's been bred and raised to be in charge of any given situation, he can't help find the whole thing very awkward. Erik's happy to be patient with him - he just loves him and wants to look after him, even if Charles still isn't comfortable with being looked after.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Lesson To Be Learned

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening lines from Green Day’s “Blood, Sex, and Booze”; and the title is a reference to _both_ Erik and Charles needing to figure out some things.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and for all the love! Much appreciated.

_I’m in distress_   
_oh mistress I confess_   
_so do it one more time_   
_these handcuffs are too tight and_   
_you know I will obey…_

“Charles,” Erik’s saying, angrily, “what the _hell?_ ”

“Which hell?” Charles attempts to sit up, weakly; Erik pushes him back down. “Are we talking Dante, or the Greek gods, or—”

“You’re not helping.” Erik takes his chin in one hand, turning his face, scrutinizing his eyes. “Are you still dizzy? Lightheaded?” And in his head that voice worries: _pulse still too fast/eyes all right but/Charles on the floor bleeding/no no NO/I can’t/can’t lose him can’t shout at him now/maybe later but now please just let him be fine…_

“I _am_ fine,” Charles says. _I love you_.

“I’m so sorry,” Hank mourns, in the background, “I shouldn’t’ve asked, I pushed you too hard, I’m so sorry, Charles—”

“Hank, I’m all right, it was only a problem of intensity and it was at least half my fault in any case—”

“You are _not_ all right. And _you_ need to be out of my sight for a while.” The Cerebro measuring equipment rattles ominously.

“Um,” Hank says, and looks at Charles, nervously. “I’m really sorry. And I don’t want to die.”

“He’s not going to kill you. Erik, you’re not going to kill Hank. No one’s killing anyone, understand?”

“Charles, you fainted.”

“I did not.” Technically true; he’d never lost consciousness, though the world had gone awfully grey and blurry for a while, and he doesn’t quite recall how he’d ended up on the floor.

“Your nose is bleeding.”

“ _Was_ bleeding.”

“Charles.” Erik’s hand clamps down on his arm. And Charles realizes just how angry Erik actually is.

Erik’s angry because he’s frightened, of course. But that won’t make the consequences any less real. Probably the opposite, in fact.

Very low, a forbidding rumble: “You said you wouldn’t allow yourself to be hurt. You promised. You promised _me_.”

“I thought we meant that about the bedroom—”

Now hiding on the other side of the railing, Hank chokes on nothing visible, and drops his pen.

“Sorry!” Charles says, in that direction. Erik glares. Hank retreats a step, but not as far as any of them expect, and radiates concern right back.

“Professor, are you—”

“Charles,” Erik says, and the grip on his arm is only gentle because Erik’s holding those impulses in check, “there are no conditions on you remaining unhurt.” _We need you. I need you. I do need you._

_I know, I’m sorry, I simply had to—it’s incredible, Erik, the rush of it—_

“The rush of it nearly killed you. You— _don’t_ sit up.” That’s an order. It resonates in his head, as well.

The forcefulness makes his temples twinge. He brings up a hand, rubs the side of his head, blinks. The exhilaration, the intoxicating sense that he can see forever, is fading, leaving behind wet sand shining in the ebb of the tide.

It’s not an inaccurate metaphor. His head does feel rather waterlogged. And the edges of objects come ringed with faint halos. He attempts surreptitiously closing and reopening one eye, then the other. No, still fuzzy. But he doesn’t feel _bad_ , as such. So…

“Erik, I’m hardly going to lie here on the laboratory floor all day.” He couples the words with an attempt at an affectionate mental caress, though it doesn’t seem to do much good; Erik’s scowl gets blacker.

“If you wish to get up from the floor, I can carry you. To bed.”

“Honestly,” Charles protests, now a bit annoyed, “I’m perfectly fine,” and tries getting to his feet.

He wakes up some indeterminate time later, lying on a rock that after a few seconds resolves itself into a government-issue infirmary cot.

He doesn’t open his eyes right away, letting the world trickle in slowly, at its preferred casual pace. The air is crisp and cool. His head hurts like hell—like every single kind of hell, he decides, in any mythology a person might desire and probably some newly invented ones besides. Most of him is under a rather scratchy blanket; one arm, which isn’t, is cold, except for his hand, which is warm.

Because Erik’s holding it. Erik’s sitting beside him, holding his hand.

He can’t’ve been out that long. Erik’s thoughts are still buzzing with fear and shock and desperation and love, every protective impulse screaming into the brittle morning air.

Erik _thinks_ so very clearly; that’s one of the reasons Charles loves him. Most people are tangled messes of candleflame, wants and desires flickering up and over each other, blown in new directions by each passing gust. Erik knows how to focus. Knows the defined clarity of a goal, a mission, a purpose. When Erik loves, he does so with his entire heart.

Single-minded, he’d said to Erik once. He’d not been certain any non-telepath could understand. But Erik understood. Understands him.

Erik’s not really all _that_ single-minded, of course. No one is. Right now, Erik’s thoughts are tumbling painfully over each other, colliding, tumultuous: _Charles/please/love you please/come back and look at me come back and wake up and tell me/you’re all right, you must be, that is a pulse/can’t lose you/I lose everyone/how do I fight this how do I fix this I should have stepped in should have stopped it/never again/not ever again if you’ll just wake up I can make you promise, beg you to promise, and/you’ll say yes to me you will and then never again but you have to wake up so we can/please, please, Charles, please…_

 _Erik…_ he offers, word drifting into the space left when Erik’s own dissolve and break apart.

 _Charles—!_ And both of those hands tighten around his, convulsive joy.

 _Yes. Yes, I’m here, I’m here, I’m so sorry…_ Erik’s grip on his hand is too hard, likely to leave bruises, but neither of them cares. _I’m not leaving you. I love you._

 _Love you—_ Erik leans forward, frees one hand, touches him, fingers tiptoeing across his arm, his face, his hair, seeking affirmation that this is real. _Charles, I—you—can you open your eyes? Or—_

 _Oh, sorry, yes…_ The headache’s cruel, spiking behind his eyes, but that’s unimportant compared to the honeyed warmth of Erik’s concern, pouring golden comfort through the world. So he raises reluctant eyelids, and finds Erik there inches away, white lines around those lips and that aching gaze.

“Charles,” Erik says, out loud, and then just drops his forehead to rest on Charles’s shoulder and breathes, deep inhales, as if trying to take Charles into his lungs like oxygen. Like he’s been starved of air.

Charles turns his head on the pillow, presses his cheek into Erik’s hair, keeps their fingers entwined, and breathes along.

Evidently he’s managed to frighten everyone even worse than he’d initially thought. Hank refuses to let him out of the infirmary all day. Erik, to Charles’s everlasting annoyance, decides that now is the time to agree with Hank on something, and parks himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair at Charles’s bedside as if there’s no place else he’ll ever need to be.

Considering Erik’s mission, Erik’s resolution, Erik’s life’s work to this point, Charles is astonished, and touched, and deeply moved. He also wonders just how bad he looks, if Erik remains this shaken. He doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t really want to know, and won’t push Erik into reliving his collapse all over again.

He sleeps most of the day. He’s actually a bit surprised that he can; normally he can’t sleep well, with this brutal a headache, but either he’s overexerted himself more than he’d imagined, or Erik’s presence is keeping the pain just enough at bay, or both.

He suspects it’s both. Erik would doubtless object to being called soothing, but he is: that determined loyal ferocity remains stalwart and reliable, a constant, at his side. And Charles wraps a telepathic limb around the support, and slips back into velvet rest.

Raven and Hank and the children stop by the infirmary, broadcasting worry like they’re trying to shout it to the stars; Charles, half-asleep, wakes up enough to hear Erik snapping at them to back off and cease thinking so loudly or he’ll be forced to take extreme measures to silence them, and then hastily wakes up the rest of the way.

_Erik, you are not going to render any of the children—or my sister!—unconscious._

_They’re hurting you._

Charles doesn’t try to deny this, since Erik’s been in close proximity to his wobbly shields all day, but opts for, _It’s barely noticeable really_. Even though he carefully does not add _not on top of everything else_ , Erik makes a noise that, if not telepathic, would be a simmering growl.

 _Stop that_. “—and, Hank, you don’t need to feel guilty, honestly. I asked you to push me. So if it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine, clear?”

“Of course it’s your fault,” Raven says, “Charles, you idiot,” and then hugs him so tightly he can’t breathe, tears in her eyes.

Darwin pats him gingerly on the shoulder and thinks fleetingly about wishing he could share his mutation, maybe if Charles could adapt then he wouldn’t hurt so bad, and Charles grins back through the headache and thanks him.

Alex lurks in the back, but he’s smiling: the Professor’s okay after all.

Sean says, earnestly, “You can borrow my purple plush platypus if you need something cuddly to sleep with, I always feel better with a stuffed animal around,” and Angel says, “What the _fuck?_ ” and even Erik looks nonplussed and Charles somehow keeps a straight face long enough to assure him that the loan, while appreciated, won’t in fact be necessary.

 _Besides_ , he sends to Erik, as they file out, _I have something cuddly to sleep with_ , followed by a very specific image. Erik, startled into audible speech, retorts “I am _hardly_ cuddly!” and the door closes on a chorus of horrified “fuck no” and “damn right” and a single muttered “only for the Prof.”

Charles just grins. They both know it’s true.

Erik sits with him all afternoon, alternately reading to him out of the tattered paperback copy of _The Once and Future King_ that’s lived in Charles’s suitcase through all the road trips, or playing chess with him on the travel set Erik’d seemingly conjured from thin air in Arizona, or, once or twice, singing to him, very softly. This last only happens when Erik believes that Charles is asleep, or nearly so; that finely-tuned voice always begins haltingly, dredging up old lullabies from far-off memory, but ends up unashamed and sincere and loving by the end.

Charles, who hadn’t thought it’d be possible to love Erik more, finds his heart awash in music. He likes the feeling. Being swept away.

He does reconsider being in love—not seriously, of course, nothing will make that feeling depart—when Erik tries to hand-feed him soup.

“I’m not—” Opening his mouth, clearly, has been a mistake. Erik’s got quick reflexes.

Charles swallows, scowls, pretends he doesn’t have soup on his chin. _I’m not an invalid, Erik!_

“I can feel your headache every time you move. And you do not have to move if I feed you.”

 _It’s getting better_. True.

“Mouth open, Charles.” _Better does not mean fully recovered. Not yet_.

Charles glares at Erik and the spoon. Both remain unmoved.

“You and I both know that I can outwait you.” _Please_.

It’s the please that does it. Erik asking.

Charles sighs, loudly enough to make the point. Permits Erik to feed him for a few bites, then sits up more and takes over the spoon. The headache’s not _that_ bad.

He does take advantage of Erik’s flood of relief— _Charles sitting up, eating, scowling adorably, thank god_ —to ask whether they can leave the infirmary and at the very least make it back to his actual room. He misses his books. His sweaters. The sheets he’s shared with Erik.

Theoretically they’ve been assigned separate quarters by the CIA. Neither of them minds, in part for the sake of appearances and in part because they enjoy having the extra space. Erik’s quarters stay organized and efficient and make an excellent strategic planning refuge. They sleep in Charles’s bed.

They sleep with Erik’s hand curled around Charles’s wrist, or cupping the back of his neck, or tangled into his hair. They sleep naked, and Erik has a tendency to move a foot over in the night and set it on Charles’s ankle, as if wanting to hold him in place that way too, wanting to keep him close even in dreams.

Erik sets the soup bowl to one side, lifts his chin, looks into his eyes. Must be reassured by whatever he finds, or maybe he’s wanting that closeness as well, because he nods.

Erik undresses him carefully, almost reverently, and tucks him into bed, and slides in beside him and wraps arms and legs around him until Charles is engulfed by lean and cozy heat, and he’s not certain whether Erik sleeps at all that night, but he himself does, and awakens in the same position, feeling happy and loved and with only the faintest suggestion of healing bruises on the surface of his mind.

“I think I’d like to try looking for Shaw again today,” he ventures, over eggs and toast, once they finally emerge and accomplish the expedition to the cafeteria. He’s expecting some form of argument—or possibly not, if Erik’s growing impatient with the lack of progress—but he’s not expecting the instant chill on the other side of the table.

Erik’s fork stops itself, suspended, in midair. “I can only assume you mean on your own. Without any kind of technological enhancement.”

“What? No, I need the extended range.” The fork still hasn’t moved. “I can…hear further, see more clearly, with—that’s what you want, isn’t it? What we all want? Finding him?”

“No.”

“But—of course it is, I can hear you thinking—”

“No to you. And Cerebro.” Erik goes back to studying whatever document’s in front of him this morning. Likely something classified and restricted and kidnapped from the most secret cache of CIA files in existence. Charles wouldn’t be surprised.

“No,” he says, irritated now, and wraps his fingers around his mug so as not to throw the tea at Erik’s face to get his attention, “that’s not a yes or no question, Erik, I wasn’t asking for permission—”

“Yes, you were. And I said no.”

 _“_ Sorry, _what?_ ” _If this is about yesterday, I’m fine, you know I’m fine—_

 _You are not_. “And still no.” Erik drops the fork, not touching it; gets up, and stalks away, leaving quivering metal chairs in his wake, and Charles sitting there openmouthed.

He catches up with Erik just outside the cafeteria, and then has to find his breath, not so much from the sprint across the room as from the sudden realization that Erik’s just given him an order—tried to give him an order—and he’s refused.

But he’s right. And he’s not backing down. Erik needs him.

Even if Erik doesn’t want to admit it. That thought only increases the annoyance. Who on earth just _walks away_ from an argument? Especially when the other person has a valid point?

“You do _not_ want to have this argument, at this moment, with me,” Erik says, apparently to the distant end of the corridor since he’s refusing to look at Charles. “Believe me.”

“I think we need to have this argument— _are_ we having an argument? I thought we could at least manage civilized discussion—”

Erik stops walking. And Charles finds himself pinned against the wall, one deadly swift movement that ends with one of Erik’s hands capturing his wrists above his head and Erik’s body looming over his.

The wall’s extremely hard. Unyielding. When he tries to move his hands, Erik’s grip tightens. That’s unyielding, too.

“Charles,” Erik hisses, anger and frustration and some less identifiable emotion boiling lava-like through what Charles is only now realizing has been a very thin shell of calm, “you said you were mine. On your knees, my hand in your hair, you promised me. Yours, you said.”                                                                   

He’s very sure he’s stopped breathing. The arousal’s immediate, and deafening, that swell and crash of ecstatic sound. The lava crackles and sears fire into his bones.

“Say so again.”

 _Yes—_ “Yours, you know that, Erik, please—”

“Then you listen when I tell you what you’re allowed to do.” Erik obviously notices the physical reaction, asserting all that need so brightly between them. _No. This is not a debate, and you don’t get a reward for this, and we’re not having this argument because the likelihood that I will strip all the metal from the cafeteria chairs and use it to tie you rather painfully to my bed is extraordinarily high, do you understand?_

Charles wants to say yes, he understands, but at the moment that would come out as _yes please anything you want to do, please tell me what you want me to do, keep me here or take me to your bed and do all of the above, let me know that I am yours, completely,_ and Erik must read that on his face or in his thoughts, because the hand on his wrists loosens too quickly, leaving him anchorless.

“Fuck,” Erik mutters, and some other words in various languages, and then steps away, and Charles sags limply against the wall.

He gives Erik, and himself, a few minutes to recover. In part this is simply because he’s unconvinced that his legs will obey—oh, bad choice of words, he thinks, blackly amused—and in part because they both no doubt need the time. The smooth featureless grey hallway, at his back, concurs.

But they have to have the debate. They can’t leave these things unsaid. This won’t work, none of it, not the mission or the training or whatever fragile trust they’re attempting to build, right now, otherwise.

He pushes himself upright, pats the wall in a gesture of mutual support, and heads in the direction of sparking spitfire thoughts.

Erik’s in his own quarters. They look the same as Charles’s, except neater. Erik doesn’t leave papers and clothing and half-empty mugs of tea where enemies might find them.

Charles ponders fleetingly what diabolical uses an enemy might have for a mug of tea. He can’t really imagine any, but Erik probably can.

He knocks. Erik doesn’t say anything, which could be good or bad; he chooses to take it as an indicator of hope, and opens the door and steps inside.

Erik’s sitting crosslegged on the tidily made bed, not gazing at anything in particular; but his pocket paperclips, the ones he collects absentmindedly from desks and documents and carries around like companions, are whirling and spinning violently at eye level.

“No respect for privacy, Charles?”

“I do respect your privacy,” Charles says, keeping his voice even, “I respect _you_. Which is why—”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Erik—”

“You want me to give you orders, Charles. And then you don’t listen when I do. You see the problem.”

“I see us not understanding…what we’re doing…the same way. That’s only a problem if we allow it to be.”

Erik unfolds those long legs. Somehow even that casual gesture carries looming danger. Icebergs on the horizon. “Would you like me to allow you to apologize to me? To get on your knees and beg? Would that solve your problem, Charles? That’s why I’m doing this with you, after all. To solve your problem, when you need me to.”

He wants to say yes, wants to kneel and lower his eyes and give in, with everything in him; wants Erik to touch him and tell him that this is all right, that they’re all right, that all is forgiven and the world can go on turning. Because he’s himself, he says, “I believe we need to talk about this.”

“Do you.” Very flat. And the paperclips cease spinning in the air.

Charles takes a deep breath. In, and out. “Yes, I do.”

“Did I say you were allowed to talk?”

That one—doesn’t hurt, not exactly. It does feel as if someone—Erik—has struck him, hard, in the gut; winded, airless, he can’t breathe. But he’s known, he’s always known, that that surrender will be used against him, if and when he gives it. He’s given it now, to Erik. It’s not a surprise that he feels like he can’t stand.

What does surprise him is the fact that, even as his heart cracks, he stays on his feet.

He’d hoped, god, he’d wanted, needed, Erik to be strength when he couldn’t find enough of his own. To give him balance when the world lurched from extreme to extreme. To be the person who wouldn’t turn willing submission into a weakness to exploit.

To be the person who’d sung to him, in the infirmary.

“You didn’t. But we do. Need to. I can’t—I can’t promise what you want me to promise. I—”

“Not very submissive of you.” Still not looking. But the paperclips weave themselves together, restless.

“No,” Charles whispers, after a second of watching them. “I suppose it’s not.” _Erik, please_.

“Please what? Please allow you to place yourself in danger? Please indulge your need for martyrdom?” _No. You don’t get to ask me for that._ One of the paperclips at the end twists in agony. Bends back on itself. Snaps in half.

Charles hears himself gasp, at the sound. _That’s not what—I’m not—please simply listen—_

“Charles,” Erik says, conversationally, “I am _this_ close to using these very paperclips to tie you down, over this bed. Right here, in my room, where you followed me. That’s a metal-tipped ruler, in this desk. I can feel that. I could make you feel that. I could use it on you. Until you forget everything else. Until you scream. And you would scream. That’s what you want, correct?” But his thoughts, that shining liquid-metal river, ripple at the image, Erik sickened and shaking: _never/I could never/blood on all that skin/no no please don’t say yes please don’t let me do this…_

“No,” Charles whispers. _No. Not like that. Not like this._

“Then what _do_ you want?”  The paperclips explode outward in an eruption of metal, flinging themselves suicidally into the walls, the floor, the furniture. _I can’t—I love you but—I don’t know how to do this with you—_

 _I only wanted to talk to you!_ Charles shouts back, and that’s not compliant or obedient at all, nothing like the submissive he ought to be, deferring to Erik’s orders, trying to please. But he can’t be anyone other than who he is, he _can’t_ , and that frustration and despair is so loud he can’t believe Erik can’t hear it too, but Erik doesn’t answer, so he turns blindly away, vaguely aware of the tears and unsure whether they’re from rage or pain or the terrible loneliness of knowing that he’s done this all wrong, the way he always does in the end.

He takes two steps and bumps into the corner of the desk because he can’t see, and nearly trips, and Erik makes a small movement in his direction but Charles catches his balance because he _doesn’t_ need Erik and then sets one hand on the knob of the door.

The knob sparks with heat. And the lock fuses even as he stares at it.

There’s nothing else he can do, nothing he has left to say, and he won’t beg Erik to let him out. He takes his hand off the doorknob, and, because all at once he’s very tired, collapses down on the floor, not gracefully, one leg bent awkwardly beneath him and the other pulled up so that he can rest his forehead on that knee and pretend the world’s gone away.

The silence, filling the room, is very loud.

There’s a hushed rustle of motion; Erik getting up, most likely, though Charles doesn’t lift his head to confirm that. For all he knows Erik’s just going to pluck another piece of top-secret documentation from the desk and go back to reading.

But the footsteps, soundless as ever, come to his side, and stop. And Erik gets down on the floor with him, tucking legs up, cat-like and precise.

Charles sits entirely still, and breathes, in and out. He isn’t crying. The cut’s too deep, too all-encompassing, for tears. A single sword-stroke, quick and cleanly edged.

 _I can’t lose you_ , Erik says, quietly. _When you—you were gone, in my head. I could see you, in the infirmary, lying there, but you weren’t HERE, with me, and I—I had to be angry, when you woke up. Because you woke up and wanted to do it all again and I can’t do that again._

That’s more or less what he’d understood, from Erik’s first reaction in the nest of Cerebro’s heart. It probably means something that Erik’s willing to say the words, but that doesn’t change where they’ve ended up. Here, with acre-wide inches of insufficient military-grey carpet between them, with a locked door.

Erik lifts a hand, hesitates. _Can I…touch you?_

 _If you want._ Not even bitter. He’s too tired for bitter, deep down in his bones. Too drained. Erik’s words echo as loudly as if they’ve just been proclaimed anew: _what do you want, I don’t know how to do this with you…_

Not as if he knows, either.

He hears Erik swallow, the sound very clear in all the heavy quiet.

And then that hand reaches out again, tentative. As if Erik’s afraid of possible repercussions, though in which direction Charles doesn’t know. He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

Erik touches his shoulder, lightly. His hair. One cheekbone. The line of his chin. _Charles…?_

_?_

_I…am sorry. About this. I didn’t mean—I’ve never done this before_. Not admitted as an excuse. Only an explanation. Honesty.

 _Neither’ve I_ , Charles says, wearily. He doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. Erik’s surprise reflects in their heads, penny-bright and flavored like new copper.

_But you know that. You knew that. I told you. I’ve never—when I said I’ve never felt this way with anyone before you—_

_Oh,_ Erik breathes, the word raw-edged, a newly-inflicted wound. _I thought—I don’t know what I thought. Not really. You seemed—you did all this so…_

 _Naturally?_ That one _is_ bitter. Erik doesn’t flinch, though. Inches a bit closer to him instead. Slides the arm gingerly around his shoulders, giving him multiple chances to shrug it off.

_You want me to be honest with you? Yes. You’re beautiful, Charles. And I love you._

_You—_

_I do. Losing to you at chess, watching you drink tea in the mornings, listening to you lecture about the glories of DNA replication—and, yes, you on your knees, looking up at me—I love you. Please believe that._

_That’s not easy,_ Charles says, also being recklessly honest, unguardedly cynical in the emptiness left by receding emotion. _People lie._

 _Of course—of course they do—but, Charles…_ Erik takes a deep breath, and visibly sets his own shock at that reply to one side, pushing back the anguish and anger at the reality under the words. Erik knows about lies, knows about evil, knows about unkindness. But from outside his loving family. Not from within. And the paperclips, the pen-tips, the desk-drawer handles, shiver, as Erik hurts for him.

_Am I lying to you? About this?_

_I don’t know._

_Yes, you do. You can see that, if you want to. You told me once that you knew everything about me. Everything I am. You didn’t run from me then._

_Of course not._

_Then don’t run from me now._

_I can’t promise what you want me to promise. I can’t be what you want me to be. I said I’d not be good at this and I was right. What more do you want? What else can I—_ He’s not speaking the words aloud, but his throat closes up anyway. Out of sheer bloodyminded resolution, he forces back the sob.

“Charles,” Erik says, out loud, and voices a colorful string of multilingual profanities in their heads, tart and vivid, “I want _you_.” _I love you. And you love me_.

“So bloody _arrogant_ ,” Charles says, and then the dam collapses under the weight of surprised normality and he starts laughing, or maybe crying, Erik’s certainty firm as iron and unbreakable as the heart of the world, and Erik’s arm stays around his shoulders while the tears finally fall.

“I know you love me,” Erik murmurs. “Some days I don’t understand why. But I’m selfish enough to take it. To take you. If you want me to.” _I do love you. I always will. Even if you say no, if you walk away from me—I’m a better man because of you, Charles. Occasionally against my will, I admit—_ Humor glinting in the caverns, flint and spark. _But that is true_.

“You wouldn’t talk to me,” Charles whispers, because that still hurts for so many reasons and he can’t just say yes, not so soon. Erik winces, possibly from guilt or from the glancing encounter with that open wound.

“I know. I didn’t mean—I didn’t realize how badly I—Charles, please look at me.” _I’m sorry. I hurt you, and I am sorry. It won’t happen again_. Another certainty. Brick and mortar. Iron and steel.

He swallows. Lifts his eyes, reluctantly. Finds Erik looking at him, eyes unguardedly damp around the edges, mirroring his own.

_You were afraid. For me._

_Yes._

_Can you talk to me now?_

_If that’s what you—if you want—_ Erik feels uncertain, in their heads, for the first time. Doesn’t say, not in words, _if you still want me._

“Of course I want you,” Charles whispers, and changes position, then, leans against that lean body next to his, and Erik’s arms close around him, wordless with relief and joy.

_But we do need to talk. And I’m not saying I’m blameless—_

_You—Charles, I was the one who wouldn’t listen to you—_

_Then listen to me now_. “You weren’t entirely wrong. I was overdoing it. And I did promise you. I hadn’t…I wasn’t taking this seriously. Or I was, but…only when I wanted to. And that’s not fair to you. If we’re doing this, together…then I’m yours. All of me.” He waits, the space of one heartbeat, then adds, because he’s not said it yet, “I do love you, you know.”

 _I know_. Erik sits there on the floor, holding him, Charles practically in his lap now, head resting on one shoulder. One of Erik’s hands strokes through his hair, gently _. I know._

_I’m sorry, Erik._

_No. Never apologize for being right_. “You are, you know. Which you’ll probably enjoy. I was afraid. Seeing you on the ground…the way you just—disappeared, in my head…you were bleeding, Charles, and I—” Erik’s hand rests over his temple, in the guise of brushing back rumpled hair. _You told me I’d not be alone. That neither of us would have to be._

Charles lifts his own hand, covers Erik’s, presses it against his cheek, indulging himself with the presence. “You’re right, I do enjoy you saying so.” _I won’t leave you alone. Just as you won’t leave me. Can we…compromise, perhaps?_

 _New experiences all the time,_ Erik sighs, but the teasing’s layered over marginally less tension, now. “What did you have in mind?”

“I won’t promise you I’ll stop using Cerebro. No, don’t look at me like that. We both know it’s necessary. To find others like us, to find Sebastian Shaw…”

“That’s my vengeance. Not yours.”

 _As if I won’t be there with you_. “And you’re wrong. Even if I weren’t in love with you, which makes it mine as well, I’d still need to do this. To find him.” He’s not sure how to explain. _I know about evil. And I’ve seen your memories. I believe that he needs to be stopped, even if I’m prepared to argue with you about ways and means. And Cerebro is how I can assist with finding him._

 _You did say compromise…_ And that’s tacit agreement, in those words.

“I did.” _I’ll_ _be careful. Shorter sessions. Breaks in between. And you’ll be there_.

“Yes, I will.” _And if I ask you to stop, if I think that you need to stop…_

 _I’ll listen._ “I might still argue with you afterwards, but I’ll listen to your reasons.” He pauses, as Erik nods. _And…I am yours. I want to be. Completely. If you want me._

 _Of course I want you!_ “And…I’ll try to listen to you. I…may not be entirely rational regarding your safety, Charles.”

That expressive voice sounds a bit disgruntled: Erik not thrilled with the admission that he’s anything less than ruthlessly calculating at all times. Charles, inexplicably, finds himself smiling.

_As long as you know it._

_So you can mock me for the sentimentality, you mean?_

_Only when the occasion calls for it._ He won’t, really. Not what Erik needs. “Your paperclips’re all over the floor, you know…you’ll want those, later.”

“I am aware. Right now I am holding you.” _I would like to continue holding you._

Charles, who would like that too, settles more comfortably into long arms. The silence, around them, settles itself as well. Even the carpet feels less thin and sparse, though that may just be because he’s snugly in Erik’s lap. Being held.

“So,” Erik murmurs, speaking into his hair, low susurration that travels sweetly down to his toes, “compromise.”

“Mmm…”

“Are you awake?”

“Yes?” Only being happy. He is. It’s a diffuse, bittersweet kind of contentment, the serenity after a hard-won battle, gazing out over the field. Erik’s hand strokes his cheek again, gently; that feels right too. They’ve come out of the fray together.

The fabric of Erik’s shirt is soft. His own left leg, bent crookedly, is starting to complain, but that grumbling, like the rest of the world, fades off someplace distant and irrelevant, when he listens to that heartbeat under his ear and nothing else. The steady beat of oceans. Waves greeting the shore.

“Oceans, indeed.” Erik’s entertained. “Charles, you…”

Voices. Physical voices, outside. Clattering down the corridor. Barging into the moment.

The voices approach, chattering about mindless trivia, the cafeteria food (awful), the current CIA leadership (also awful), fellow female agents who wear short skirts to work (not awful but disgustingly appreciated), and Charles sighs and sits up, prepared to send them away with not an ounce of guilt, but he doesn’t have to; they keep walking all on their own.

Erik has tensed all those muscles, too, but Charles shakes his head. “No one we know. They’re not looking for us.” _In any case, we have a very thoroughly locked door_.

Erik winces, invisible regret.

“Oh. Sorry.” _No, it’s all right. I asked you once not to let me go. You did listen to me._

And Erik, after a second’s startlement, laughs.

Still sitting on the floor, he picks up the closest of Erik’s hands. In the wake of that laughter, kisses the back of it, lips meeting old small scars and tanned skin.

Erik looks at him, and their eyes catch. And Charles thinks, with a kind of peaceful shock, yes, this, exactly. And sees the answering delight in Erik’s gaze.

“So,” Erik asks, carefully, eyes dancing, “you enjoy my hands…” _What would you like me to do with my hands, Charles?_

 _You did mention, some time ago…_ He sends the image, a quick burst of want and need and request: himself bent over the bed, those hands, the exquisite euphoria each time Erik’s hand comes down on him. _If you’d like_.

Erik stares at him, lips parted, then recovers. “I…would very much like to spank you, Charles.” _You—you’re not asking because—_

 _—because I want you to hurt me? No._ “But I wasn’t listening to you, properly, earlier. I think…if not for the argument itself…at least for that. If we both agree I deserve it. Sir.”

Both eyebrows fly up. “I thought I asked you to use my name.” _If we both agree that we want this, you mean. You asking, and me…punishing you._

“You did, sir.” _Yes_.

“Oh…” Erik actually grins at him, fierce and feral and happy. Then gets to his feet, keeping his grip on Charles’s wrist, so that Charles has no choice except to follow. _I love you_. “Clothes off, then. _Rapidly_.”

“With you holding my arm?” _Love you!_

“Consider it a challenge. Also…I believe that’s you questioning me. Two more.”

_Wait, how many were you planning to begin with?_

“Until I tell you we’re done. Do you need me to move this hand? For your shirt?” _Ah. Not talking out loud?_

 _You’re fortunate I can still talk at all. I can see what you’re imagining._ “Only for a second. Thank you, Erik.”

 _Thank you, Charles_. “And…yes. I do know I am. Come here.”

He does. As ordered. And the compliance makes him shiver, as the weight of the waves closes over him, vast and rolling and deep.

Erik gazes at him, looking spellbound, for a moment. Charles wonders what he’s seeing, with that expression in those eyes.

One graceful finger touches his lips. _I’d like to kiss you, Charles._

_Yes, Erik._

Erik’s kiss is hot and firm and all-encompassing, tongue sliding kindly but insistently into his mouth, devouring every centimeter of him, filling all his senses, and Charles shuts his eyes and kisses back because Erik wants him to, because _he_ wants to, not passive but embracing the invasion.

He’s entirely naked. Erik’s not. This realization makes him shiver and then silently concur: this is the way they ought to be, if Erik asks him for this.

 _Oh, is that what you want?_ Erik pulls back from the kiss, leaving him messy and dazed and craving more, lips wet and swollen with the imprint of that mouth on his. “You want to be mine. Incontrovertibly. You want me to make you feel it all. Tomorrow. The next day. When you sit, when you stand, when you walk around, in public, the marks I leave on your skin…”  _If you need me to stop, to slow down, all you ever have to do is say the word._

 _I know,_ Charles whispers back, and then _, all of that, yes, Erik, please._

_So polite, asking for this, aren’t you?_

_I—_ He’s not certain whether that’s praise, or mockery.

Erik takes a deep breath. Lets it out. _Which do you want it to be?_

_I…don’t know._

_All right. We’ll come back to that._ Erik traces the curve of his right eyebrow, trails fingertips over his face, skims them across his throat. Leaves them there, quiescent but a harbinger of events to come.

“Have you ever been to a bondage club, Charles? I have. Not for pleasure, certainly not for pain…I was looking for someone. He wasn’t there, but that’s beside the point, at the moment. I looked around, and there was an absolutely beautiful young man in a corner, and he was smiling, and he was wearing a collar, and a leash, and sitting at someone’s feet…” The fingers tap, one-two-three, over his throat. Charles whimpers. Sways on his feet.

“I wondered, at the time, why anyone would do that. Why he’d voluntarily kneel, and wear those things, and smile…and then I went back to my hotel, and stood under the shower, and pictured that smile again, and I didn’t want him, not exactly, but the thought of someone trusting me that much, giving over every last bit of control, for me…I made myself come, my own hand on my cock, under the shower, Charles, imagining that. And now…now I have you.”

 _Erik_ , Charles gasps, dizzy. Erik studies him thoughtfully, still not touching him anywhere else, only those fingertips, and every atom of his body throbs with denied craving.

“Would you wear a collar for me? If I asked you to?”

The answer spills out like a flood, like an orgasm, a crescendo: _yes yes yours please claim me give me something of yours to wear to belong to you Erik please…_

Erik laughs, blushes a little, glances away, as if embarrassed now by the request, by the response, by the strength of that mutual desire. “Well…perhaps. Someday. Maybe…if you earn it.” _I love you, Charles. Remember that._

 _Yes, always._ The universe consists, right now, of him and Erik alone. Infinite and spectacular.

“I believe you made a request of me. Because you need it. Here…” Erik walks him over to the bed. Pauses, positions darting in rapid-fire contemplation through their heads—this is a first for him, for them, Charles remembers cloudily—and then sits down, fully dressed, on the end. Rolls up one sleeve, then the other, tantalizingly slow and even more so when he notices Charles breathing faster.

_You like watching? Me preparing, ready for what I’m going to do to you?_

_Yes, sir._

_Good. Over my lap, then._

He’s been spanked before, of course. But this, this position, he’s never liked it this way. Too vulnerable. Too intimate. Erik, hearing some of that, looks up at him from the bed. _If you need to—_

 _No. I trust you. And I want—_ He stops. Can’t admit that. Not even to Erik, not yet.

 _You want that_. Erik says it for him. _You want to be exposed, and helpless, and held down while I make you feel me, until you feel only me._

Charles gives in, gives up, gives himself over to the rush of embarrassment, arousal, need, and whispers _yes_.

“Then don’t make me ask again. Come here. Over my lap.”

He leans over Erik’s thighs, slowly. His toes barely brush the floor; not going to be much help for balance. His erection, already heavy and hot, is pinned between his stomach and all that muscle, and it almost hurts caught there but beautifully so.

He stretches both arms above his head, fingers curling into the blanket and ruining Erik’s neatness. He could prop himself up on his elbows, taking back some of his weight, but he doesn’t.

Erik, understanding, smiles back. Sets a hand on the back of his neck, toying with the waves of his hair, and Charles whines into the thick wool, which gathers up the sound and tucks it all away for safekeeping.

_Ready?_

_Yes, Erik._

Despite having said yes, having asked, he’s not prepared for the sensation, the crack of Erik’s hand over bare skin, the sound flying out to echo around the room.

The handprint stings. It’s splendid. He needs it. Needs _more_.

 _Good?_ Erik’s mental voice shakes, only a fraction.

_Good. Yes._

_Harder? Not as hard? Or is this all right for now?_

_Harder, I think…not too much harder, please_. He can tell when Erik picks up that he’s employing the last word on purpose, because he gets that brilliant grin, both telepathic and not, in reply, even as Erik’s hand lifts and snaps back down, same place, but _more_ , and the lightning explodes under his skin.

_Like that?_

_Yes—oh, yes, please, that—_

Erik spanks him hard, as requested, gentleness set aside for the moment; Charles moans and squirms over Erik’s lap, unsure whether he’s trying to get away or ask for more. He can feel the rush of blood beneath tender skin, more sensitive with every open-palmed smack. Erik alternates sides, methodical and unhurried, slightly harder again when Charles whimpers and lifts his hips into the blows.

_Still good?_

_Mmm—yes—_ It’s right on the edge between pleasure and pain, but that’s the point: he’s Erik’s, here, for this, and he made Erik worry, made Erik displeased with him, and this is _right_ , the sting of it washing away the _other_ hurt.

 _Yes_ , Erik says, very softly. _I’m not trying to hurt you. Tell me if I do. I only want you to remember. You asked me for this. You want to be mine._

 _I will—I will, I’ll remember, I promise—_ The hand comes down with more intent, faster, and Charles rocks his hips into Erik’s lap, up and down, meeting each impact, letting them drive him back down. Erik’s other hand wraps around his wrists, above his head, and squeezes, and Charles hears himself moan. The heat spreads, not only focused in one place now but swirling and glowing throughout his entire body, and he relaxes into it, muscles loose and languid.

He can hear himself making small sounds, openmouthed against the blanket, not quite a pant or a grunt but somewhere in between, as Erik spanks him; his cock, trapped between his stomach and that taut thigh, is hard and leaking, wetness pooling and soaking the fabric of Erik’s slacks. The slickness torments him, and he wriggles, thrusting, cock sliding and slipping through it, the friction unbearable over tingling skin.

“Impatient,” Erik says, amused. “So wet for me, Charles. Do you like this? Feeling what I do to you, knowing you belong here, just like this?”

That’s all he knows, now. He moans, nonverbal affirmation.

 _Lovely_ , Erik thinks, loudly, and then rests the hand in place and squeezes, adding pressure to the sting; digs in fingernails, small crescents of red heat, and Charles screams, into the crumpled wool, hips jerking helplessly.

“Do you want to come like this?” Despite the audible words, Erik’s mind brushes his, a gentle whisper of apology for the hurt that turns into surprised delight once Charles’s actual response—it hadn’t been a _bad_ scream—gets through. “Do you want me to let you come, here, over my lap, from me spanking you? Answer me.”

_Yes Erik please—_

“You _have_ been very good. Not earlier, but now. Taking all of this, everything I…I think you can have what you want.” _Come for me, Charles_.

That powerful hand cracks down over blazing skin one more time, and Charles hears himself cry out, body rippling with it, climax shivering through him everywhere, cock pulsing in Erik’s lap and Erik’s hand around his wrists and his face buried in the blanket, Erik’s other hand not letting up and spanking him through the waves of orgasm, over and over, until he’s sobbing with the confusion of endorphins and shame and pain and fulfillment and bliss.

Erik moves them both carefully, eases him down onto the bed—Charles whimpers, first at the loss of Erik’s body beneath his and then when his dripping cock, still half-hard, encounters smooth fabric—and then kneels over him, weight settling on his thighs.

He keeps his eyes closed. The world is darkly beautiful, dazzling sparkles and profound silences, every sensation a new discovery. He’s not expecting anything specific, next—he can’t think enough to expect anything—but somehow he’s _completely_ not expecting the light touch of lips behind his shoulderblade, as Erik leans over to kiss him.

“Perfection,” Erik whispers, and the word floats along his skin like silk. Erik’s still dressed, almost entirely, and the fabric rubs over newly tender places, as Erik bends to kiss him again.

Charles moans, inarticulate, and pushes his hips down into the firmness of the mattress. He can’t come again so soon, at least he doesn’t think he can, but the pleasure is everywhere, decadent and relentless, and as he moves, random and unthinking, his cock drags along the bed, and that feels good, so he does it again.

“Charles,” Erik says, amused and aroused, “can you hear me?” _Still all right?_

Evidently a moan isn’t good enough, because Erik’s weight shifts, and a hand finds his face, turns his head. Charles shudders, head to toe, at being handled and repositioned so easily. “Look at me,” Erik says. _Still tropical fruit? Or…?_

 _Pineapple_ , Charles whispers, after a second, _but I can’t—_

_Just for a moment, then. Please._

With some effort, he opens both eyes. Meets Erik’s concerned pale gaze. Those eyes, so full of love and worry, plunge into his heart, a near-physical impact, and he shivers, and looks down, at the sheets; but he lets Erik feel the acceptance, the reassurance, the agreement: _I’m all right. I love you_.

 _Love you_ , Erik whispers back, and touches his cheek again, fingertip drifting over freckles, and Charles turns his head and nuzzles into the hand and the sensation of being caressed.

He can feel Erik’s rare genuine smile, silvery sunlight through rain, when he closes his eyes again, trustingly.

“All right, then…” Erik shifts position, sits back up. Trails a hand down Charles’s spine, all the way to the curves of his ass, still red-hot and burning, more so when Erik pinches tender flesh, sharply. Charles arches upwards, gasping, and Erik does it again, on the other side, matching spikes of delicious intensity, making him whine and quiver between the bed and Erik’s hands.

Erik says his name, a little desperately, and then there’s a sweep of fabric, and the sound of hands on skin, and Charles can hear it and see it because Erik shows him in their heads, Erik getting himself off above Charles’s trembling body, cock sliding rapidly through his own hand, long and thick and flushed with desire.

Erik leans forward, pressing himself against Charles’s body and his own handprints, so that they both feel each stroke, and the strokes get faster and harder and Charles pushes up against him and then lets Erik shove him down into the bed, and Erik’s orgasm explodes through them both in rolling waves, liquid heat painting reddened skin as Charles shudders deliriously beneath him.

Erik collapses atop him, breathing hard as if he’s just run a marathon; the first-ever marathon, perhaps, to tell the story of victory, of triumph, of wild and breathtaking joy. The weight, the hot breath behind his ear, are very tangible, and present, and true.

 _Charles_ , Erik manages, between breaths. _Charles?_

The words fall into the tempest, and vanish, but not without leaving a hint of solid ground. He lies there sprawled under Erik’s exhausted heaviness, Erik’s come drying sticky over tingling skin, the blanket crumpled tiredly around his fingers, and feels the peace sweep through his body like a waterfall, ceaseless thundering serenity.

 _Please?_ A suggestion of concern, this time, under all the worn-out exultation _. Charles…_

_Yes…love you._

_You—that—I love you, also, always—are you—all right?_

More than all right. He turns his head, far enough to find Erik looking back at him. Smiles. _I feel…marvelous._

 _You are._ Erik kisses him again, not hard or demanding; slightly possessive, yes, but tinged with wonder like the shining first rays of sunrise. _I love you_. “Here…” That lithe weight rolls off of him and to one side; Charles makes a tiny sound, even though he doesn’t mean to, and Erik says “Shh, come here, _liebling_ ,” and tucks their bodies back together, Charles as the little spoon, cradled by Erik’s warmth.

“You’re all right. You’re here. And I am here. Just breathe…” _Are you…does this hurt you? Did I—are you sore at all? In pain?_

He has to think about that for a while. Erik has been quite thorough. Has listened, very definitely, when asked to make things harder. But it’s a pleasant kind of soreness. A delicious, decadent awareness of every particle of his own body.

Surreptitiously, he pushes his hips back into Erik’s behind him, exploring the feeling. Lets Erik feel that too, that answer, not in words.

“Good, then.” Erik coils an arm around him, hand coming to rest over his heart. Charles puts his own atop it, lacing their fingers together; senses the elusive bright gleam of the replying smile. _Holding on to me, Charles?_

_Yes. You’re all mine._

_Yes. All yours._

The words float out and bump lightly into the bed, the desk, the whirlwind paperclips. Hang in the hush, and heal one more private piece of the world.

“Charles?”

_Yes?_

“…I’m still wearing _clothes_.”

And Charles starts laughing, helplessly, into the blanket. Erik tries to hold out, but eventually has to laugh as well, face buried in Charles’s hair, bed shaking with merriment, and right when the amusement begins dying down Charles twists around and gets them face to face and says “So you are!” and Erik starts laughing again, glorious and unguarded and in love.

 _Marvelous_ , Erik says again, shaking his head, grinning, and Charles kisses him there in the disaster they’ve made of the once-tidy bed, rumpled sheets and stained clothing and compromises offered and honored, and answers, _yes, we are_.


End file.
